


Memoirs of an Angel of Pleasure

by shouldbeover



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Being an Idiot (Good Omens), Crowley laughing at his angel, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, non-explicit sexual descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24070807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: Aziraphale tries to tell Crowley that he wants their love to progress to the physical. He goes about it in a very Aziraphale and idiotic way. It's all good.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	Memoirs of an Angel of Pleasure

Crowley sat with his mouth hanging open. He blinked, once, slowly. He shut his mouth, and blinked again, even slower.

“Wot?” he said.

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “I said I should like to run directly upon the flaming point of your weapon of pleasure,” he replied.

“Wot?” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and said hopefully, “Please, let me sheath you up to the hilt, your wonderful machine ingulphed.”

This was not going at all like he’d hoped.

Their relationship after Armageddon’t had progressed from delicious meals where he ate and Crowley watched, and their hands joined beneath the tablecloth, to picnics where they ended up curled together on the blanket after several bottles of premium champagne.

There had even been a few kisses, light and tentative, after which they parted, startled and smiling.

There had NOT been the carnal pleasures of which he had been dreaming.

He wanted Crowley to clasp him to his chest, unable to resist. To plant deep and lingering kisses upon his waiting mouth that left them both breathless. To undo his waistcoat and shirt buttons with trembling hands.

He wanted romance and passion, and all the things he’d read about in books.

But Crowley seemed to be content with what they had.

And yet, there had been hungry gazes over dark glasses, long fingers stroking a long slim neck in a sure sign of self-stimulation. He suspected that Crowley wanted the passion as much as he did, and yet was unsure of how to proceed.

Perhaps, he thought, Crowley doesn’t know that I want that too. I must tell him somehow, but how?

It seemed to crude and absent of romance to say, “I want to have sex with you.” Even “Let’s make love,” seemed inadequate. “Let’s go to bed,” was too likely to be misconstrued. And, “Do you want to fuck?” was absolutely out of the question.

So, Aziraphale did what he always did when faced with a conundrum. He went to books.

On reflection, going to a book written in 1748 might not have been the answer.

The descriptions had seemed so clear, yet couched in poetic language. No crude words or explicit depictions.

Crowley was alive and awake in 1748. They’d had dinner at several pie shops in London. He certainly knew about the book, had even claimed credit for encouraging the writer. Why then, was he being so obtuse. Surely Aziraphale’s words were clear?

“I want you to drive your truncheon into my red-centered cleft of flesh, our bodies to meet again and again until we erupt in effusions of pleasure.”

“Aziraphale, I have no idea what you are talking about. Are you feeling alright? Are you drunk?”

Aziraphale waved his hand to say no to both questions, and also to fan his flaming face.

“I thought…oh, I thought that we should take our relationships to another level, and I wasn’t sure how to ask, or even if you’d…and I thought, by suggesting…the physical act, you might feel…” Aziraphale gave up and buried his face in his hands.

“Aziraphale…are you…are you saying that you want to fuck?”

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale moaned from behind his hands, “not that word, I mean, yes, but, oh, I wanted it to be so much more…”

To his shock and horror, he heard Crowley chuckle.

“Oh, Angel, why didn’t you just say instead of…what, whatever it was you said…’flaming point of my weapon’… OH! You mean my dick!”

Aziraphale whimpered face still buried in his hands.

He heard Crowley move closer. Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s hands from his face and pushed them down into his lap. Aziraphale tried to turn his face away, but Crowley reached out and turned Aziraphale’s face towards his own. His eyes were amused, but his smile was tender and fond. “All you had to do was ask. I was trying to go slow. I want you desperately. I’ve wanted you for 2,000 years. You didn’t have to—come up with…whatever you were saying. Where did you even come up with that…’sheath me up to the hilt’?”

“Fmmmy H’ll,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Didn’t catch that.”

Aziraphale looked up, face in anguish, “Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure!”

Crowley’s eyes opened comically wide, “FANNY HILL?! You pulled sex language from FANNY HILL? Couldn’t you have grabbed something a little more recent? _Fifty Shades of Grey_? _The Joy of Sex_? _Fear of Flying_? A Judith Krantz?”

Aziraphale’s mouth pinched into a moue of displeasure. “I HAVE standards. That fifty shades thing…despicable, and don’t get me started on Krantz and Jong! The kind of people who come in looking for those books! I probably have _The Joy of Sex_ somewhere around here, but I prefer _Grey’s Anatomy_. Don’t laugh! It isn’t funny!”

Crowley rocked back onto his heels. “Oh, but it is. Imagine picking phrases from a piece of porn from the EIGHTEENTH century. I helped write that you know.”

“Yes, I know. You said at the time.”

“With everything we’ve seen over the millennia, I wouldn’t have thought you were a prude.”

Aziraphale drew himself up, back straight, struggling to salvage some sort of dignity. “I’m not a prude. Those books are just horribly written. They degrade the language. The phrasing, appalling characterization—”

“I don’t think people read them for the characters.”

“That isn’t the point! The dumbing down of humans is—”

Crowley shut him up with a kiss. A kiss that deepened, his tongue teasing Aziraphale’s lips apart. His hands gripped Aziraphale’s head, bringing him closer, fingers catching in the fluffy, white hair and tugging in a way that made Aziraphale groan.

They parted, breathless.

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Oh, Angel.”

“So, does this mean that you want—”

“Emphatically yes. I want to guide my blind favorite to the right place. Its flaming red head is ready to stand uncapt.”

Aziraphale giggled. The flowery language did sound rather absurd when he heard it from Crowley’s lips.

“You do remember.”

“Of course, helped write it, didn’t I?”

“Well, then, shall we retire to the boudoir?”

“Lead on, Angel, lead on.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love "Fanny Hill," and yes, those are all descriptions from the book.


End file.
